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amberdreamsAuthor:
amber1960Artist: mella68
Fandom: Supernatural RPF (AU)
Period: World War II
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jensen/Jared though there is no actual sex.
Alternative link (PDF & e formats available) on AO3
Warnings: It’s war, folks. Major character deaths (but with a hopeful, positive ending). Jensen has permanent injuries (amputated legs). Passing mentions of war related things; Nazis, Bolsheviks, internment camps, homophobia, etc.
Story Summary: Jensen Ackles had only fallen in love once in his life, and that was with someone he’d never met. Now in his twilight years, he tells the story of how he fell in love with Polish bomber pilot, Jared Padalecki. It is a tale of courage, loss, supressed desires and ultimately, redemption.
Acknowledgements. Massive thanks to my artist, mella68 , for the lovely art she did to go with my story. It fits so perfectly I couldn’t have been happier. You need to go and show your appreciation for her work HERE, right now!
Also thank you to my beta downjune, and to my two language advisors, judith_88_g and Elisa Andersen. They pointed me in the right direction - hopefully that is where I ended up, but any deviations from the path are all my own fault! The historical note and info about the research I did is all at the end of the fic, together with translations of the Polish and Danish phrases I used.
And finally, thank you to queenmidalah for organising the
history_bigbang challenge!
Had we but world enough, and time
Had we but world enough, and time…
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Andrew Marvell
Jensen Ackles had only fallen in love once in his life, and that was with someone he’d never met. After all these years, even knowing death was standing beside him, resting one skeletal hand on his shoulder, it was the one thing he had never regretted.
New Year’s Eve 2004
Elise didn’t begrudge spending New Year’s Eve with her great uncle Jensen. He might be ancient, pushing 90 in fact, but her mother’s favourite uncle had always held a special place in her heart, too. Always charming, a complete old-school gentleman, he had a wicked sense of humour and a cutting wit and Elise had always felt able to confide in him, things she wouldn’t dream of telling her parents. So when the nursing home rang her that morning, to say Flight Lieutenant Ackles was asking for her, she didn’t think twice about jumping in her Mini Cooper and driving the fifty odd miles across the lonely Lincolnshire fens to the home for retired Royal Air Force officers, situated in the beautifully appointed Apsley Hall.
If part of her willingness to drive all that way revolved around avoiding talking to her boyfriend about his plans for their future, then that was between her and her currently very guilty conscience. Harry’s shining love for her was at once both beautiful and terrifying, and she had a horrible feeling that his eagerness to see in the New Year with her tonight might involve kneeling and a ring. And if that was the case, Elise didn’t know what she was going to do. Not for the first time, she cursed Jack and the scars his betrayal had left behind. Her ex-boyfriend seemed to have left her so afraid of being hurt that she would rather run away than allow anyone else to get close, however much she liked them.
The Matron, Imogen Evans, met her in reception, her expression grave. Elise had been anxious when the call had come. It was very unlike Uncle Jensen to make any requests on his own behalf, and seeing the look on Imogen’s face did nothing to ease the fluttering in her stomach.
“How is he, Imogen?” Elise asked. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, not exactly. Come. I’ll walk with you.”
Elise fell into step with Matron Imogen with the ease of familiarity as they made their way through the classically decorated hallways towards Uncle Jensen’s private room. Apsley Hall had been the heart of the country estate of some Duke or other until the aristocratic owner turned over the house and grounds to the State, having fallen on hard times during the Depression. In the late ‘30s, it had been turned over to the RAF, so when war broke out it was ripe for conversion into a centre for rehabilitating wounded RAF officers.
Her great uncle Jensen had actually been one of those injured officers, though he never talked about his wartime experiences. Elise had only learned about his previous involvement with his current home when she had spotted his face in a group photograph that was hanging in one of the smaller common rooms. On closer inspection she recognised Apsley Hall in the background, and here he was. The caption said it was taken in 1942, with thirty or so other RAF officers, all looking so heartbreakingly smart in their uniforms, in spite of the various bandages and slings. From where Uncle Jen was stood, tall and debonair on the back row, you couldn’t see his crutches, or guess that half his legs were gone.
Now, Apsley Hall was a nursing home dedicated to the care of RAF veterans nearing the end of their lives. Everyone said how lucky Uncle Jensen had been to get a place here when his efforts at independent living finally became too much for him, just four years ago. Elise guessed he was lucky in a way. Though, spending your last days in any kind of nursing home felt wrong, even knowing that Jensen’s disability and increasing frailty meant having professional nurses on hand was a necessity.
“I want you to prepare yourself, Elise.” Imogen’s voice brought Elise’s attention back to the here and now.
“Flight Lieutenant Ackles,” Matron began - the staff at Apsley always used their residents’ full rank, “Flight Lieutenant Ackles has been getting weaker and weaker over the last few days since you and your mother last visited. I think we should be ready for him to let go very soon.”
“He’s dying? But he seemed so full of life last time I was here. Shouldn’t we call my mother?”
Elise wanted to protest further, to break something, but all that came out was that useless squeak and a cry for her mother. She felt vaguely ashamed of herself, and afraid. Very afraid. She was totally unprepared to face death for what was effectively the first time. Her grandparents on her mother’s side had died before she was born, and on her father’s side – well, she had never really known them. Once her father had left her mother in the lurch, her mother had eschewed his name, changing her surname back to Ackles, and cut all ties to his family. Elise had never seen any of the Johnsons again after the Ackles family (what was left of it) moved to Norfolk.
Imogen was holding open the door of great Uncle Jensen’s room, waiting for her, and Elise realised she had stopped in the middle of the hallway, and was biting at her knuckles like a small child. What if he had already departed? Even her thoughts shied away from the word death. Angry at her cowardice, she squared her shoulders and entered.
Uncle Jensen was asleep. Elise could see the reassuring rise and fall of his chest where he sat in his usual chair, bathed in the late winter sunshine pouring through the big bay window. The twin stumps of his legs were propped up on a cushioned stool and draped with the fleece blanket her mum had bought him last Christmas. The scene was so normal and domestic Elise was absurdly relieved, and unreasonably irritated with Imogen for having wound her up so. She was smiling as she took her place in her usual chair by Jensen’s side, and she didn’t even notice when the Matron quietly shut the door, leaving them in private.
Either the click of the door closing, or some innate sense told her great uncle that she was there, because he spoke without turning his head.
“Good morning, Elise. Have I ever told you that your mother let me help choose your name? It was my mother’s, that is your great-grandmother’s, name you know.”
Uncle Jensen’s voice was deep and husky, and Elise had always loved that. She turned to see his eyes were open, glinting green and gold. Before she could do more than greet him with a peck on the cheek, he was talking again. As if time was short. When she drew back to nestle into the armchair beside him, she could hear his breath rattling disturbingly in his chest.
“Do you remember last time you were here, you told me about that chap of yours, Henry? Harry? What is his name?”
“It’s Harry, Uncle Jen,” Elise nodded, puzzled at the odd choice of subject matter. She’d have thought there would be more important topics to talk about when you are possibly dying than her messy love life.
“Mmm, yes. Harry. You said you think you love him, but you aren’t certain that he loves you back. Have you talked to him yet? Told him how you feel?”
“I…no. There just hasn’t been time.... I’m waiting for the right moment, you know?”
Jensen shook his head emphatically. “That’s a mistake, Ellie. The only right time is now. You are young, you think everything lasts forever, but nothing does. Nothing lasts forever and you have to seize the moment. Carpe diem, you know that phrase?”
“I’m not that young, Uncle Jen, I’m twenty-six! Yes, of course I know the saying, but....”
“No buts, Ellie. I was in love once. Just the once, in my 90 years, and it only lasted for a matter of hours. I never even saw his face. But it was worth it. Every second counted like it was a day, and I never forgot him.”
Elise gaped. This was unexpected in every respect – great Uncle Jensen had always been a loner, and she had never even heard a rumour that he’d had any relationships in the past, let alone with other men.
Jensen was still smiling, but she could see it was no longer reaching his eyes. All of a sudden, he looked every one of his ninety years.
“Ah, I see I’ve shocked you. Nobody ever told you that Great Uncle Jensen was a raging poofter, eh?”
Elise blushed when she became aware that she was staring at her great uncle as if she’d never seen him before. It must look as though she disapproved, or was disgusted by the revelation of his sexual orientation, and that was completely untrue. She rushed to put the record straight.
“No! No, really, I was just surprised. You never seemed...I mean, I’d wondered why you never got married or talked about anyone special in your life, but I’d just assumed there had been someone, that perhaps you’d lost someone....”
Jensen put her out of her misery with another smile, genuine this time, that lit up his face and revealed the devastatingly handsome man he’d been all those years ago. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a photograph, worn at the edges but obviously treasured. He handed it over to her.
“I did lose someone. Someone very special.”
The man in the picture, perhaps in his early twenties, was gazing out at the camera with an expression of happy pride. His uniform looked brand new, buttons gleaming but outshone by his beaming smile. His cap was slightly askew over thick, wavy hair, and his eyes reminded Elise of a cat, slanted and mischievous.
“This is him; my Jared. Shall I tell you how we never met?”
There was something tentative about Jensen’s expression, as if he was half convinced Elise would still turn her back and walk away simply because her great uncle had loved another man. Elise handed back the photograph.
“Yes, please,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
0x0x0x0
Sunday 12th November 1944
“Where are we, Rogers?”
Squadron Leader Jared Padalecki had to shout to be heard due to the huge hole in his baby’s undercarriage. The roaring of the Avro Lancaster BIII’s labouring engines was in direct competition with the howling wind, her innards exposed to the cold night air. The radio was still working, just, but the destruction was extensive. At least they had finally shaken off the damned Messerschmitt that had caused most of the damage, though not before it had obliterated their bomb aimer, Joey Walsh.
The enemy fighter had come up from beneath them, rising out of the night like a metal-clad wraith. The German plane had shot away the nose gun that lay beneath Jared’s feet, taking poor old Joey with it. A stray bullet had caught Jared in the lower leg, probably shattering his shin. He was so cold, it was hard to assess what damage had been done to him, but with that and the fact that his parachute has also been shredded in the attack, he was sure there was no way he’d be jumping any time soon. With fingers made clumsy by the leather flying gloves, Jared touched the makeshift tourniquet he’d tied just above his knee, and tried not to think about home.
The mission had been successful: their squadron of Allied bombers had totally fritzed the Nazi railway line in the Brenner Pass, but Padalecki’s plane had run the gauntlet of flak from anti-aircraft guns as they’d emerged from the Alps. They had come out over “fucking Strasbourg”, as Rogers the navigator had so succinctly put it, which meant that while caught up in the thick layer of cloud that had descended over the mountains, they had strayed a fair few miles north of their intended exit route, and in doing so had somehow lost contact with the rest of their Allied squadron, mostly Yanks and Canadians.
Not for the first time, Jared wished his crew had been able to refuse this assignment. The rest of 109 Squadron had headed north from Lossiemouth that night, probably to a target in Norway, though obviously the precise information about their destination was on a need to know basis. And the Małgorzata’s crew didn’t need to know, because Padalecki had been ordered to head south and east instead.
Jared knew with damage like this, the odds were stacked against the Lancaster making it home. It was his responsibility to see his remaining crew safe while they still had sufficient altitude to bail out and while there was land beneath them instead of the freezing cold sea, where chances of survival would be nil. He was relieved when Rogers told him that their current location was Gent.
“You have to get out, lads,” Jared said. “Evacuate. Now.”
Behind Allied lines, and with a chance of a safe landing were the best odds they could hope for. Jared started a little at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Kazimierz Wierzbicki, his flight engineer and fellow Pole, was leaning over him.
“Zonstanę z tobą,” Wierzbicki said in Polish.
“No, you’re not staying, Kaz. You are bailing out with everyone else,” Jared replied, his tone clipped and full of authority. He didn’t need to add that this was an order. The fact that he’d replied in English instead of their mother tongue made that crystal clear.
The gaping hole in the wounded plane’s undercarriage made the evacuation far easier than it would have been had the plane been intact. Lancasters were notorious for being buggers to escape from, their hatches being too small to comfortably accommodate a man in full air gear plus a parachute. Something Jared didn’t have to worry about. With his leg injury, and the lack of a chute for him to use that option was no longer relevant.
One by one, Jared’s remaining crew made their way out of the aircraft. Ginger, Buster and Wierzbicki came and gripped Jared’s shoulder in a silent farewell, while Rogers and Morris just waved before they jumped. They all knew the odds were against ever seeing their Squadron Leader again, and no words could cover that sort of goodbye. Better to say nothing.
Jared twisted round as best he could to see their parachutes open one by one, like pale mushrooms against the midnight blue sky. He wasn’t a praying man, though he’d never have told his Mama that. She’d be turning in her grave. This war tended to bludgeon faith right out of even the best of Catholics, and Jared would hardly have classed himself among those. But he still found himself hoping to God that his comrades would survive.
Finally alone, Jared closed his eyes for a moment. All he needed to do now was head the Małgorzata out to sea and turn her broken nose northwards. Away from land, away from any innocent civilians. There he could find a place to bring her down and rest.
“Pieprzyć to. Come on, Padalecki, pull yourself together.” He muttered, and began to sing. There was nobody to hear his terrible voice, and he needed something to keep him awake enough to crash his broken baby properly. Blood loss mixed with the altitude was making him giddy, even though he was losing both in equal measures.
He belted out his favourite song with gusto.
“When I pretend I'm gay
I never feel that way
I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine.
When I hold back a tear
To make a smile appear
I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine.
Painting the blue, beautiful hues,
Coloured with gold and old rose.
Playing the clown,
Trying to drown all of my woes.
Though things may not look bright
They all turn out alright
If I keep painting the clouds with sunshine.”
He’d barely started on an atrocious rendition of the instrumental section when his radio crackled into life, making him jump.
“You’re no Jack Hylton, you know that, don’t you, airman? Over.” The voice was deep and whiskey-rough, and immediately made Jared feel warmer, just from knowing there was someone out there.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you with my singing; I didn’t know my radio was still transmitting, over.”
“This is Control Tower, Station 153. Do you need a fix? Over.”
Station 153 was Parham in Suffolk, Jared knew. He must be closer to the English coastline than he had thought. It was so difficult to say, with the low clouds this thick and most of his instruments literally shot to pieces.
“That won’t be necessary, Station 153. Squadron Leader Jared Padalecki at your service. Do you have a name?”
“Flight Lieutenant Jensen Ackles. Hey! You didn’t say over. Over.”
“Didn’t seem much point in saying it, when everything is over. I’m over. Over,” Jared said, then laughed, feeling a little embarrassed at the note of self-pity that he’d allowed to creep into the conversation. He barrelled on to quickly change the subject before the radio operator could respond. The last thing he wanted was to waste whatever time he had left getting maudlin.
“Jensen Ackles. That doesn’t sound very British to me. But what do I know, I’m only a crazy Polak.”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, as if the radio operator was still waiting for the ‘over’, causing Jared to tense up. He really hoped that this Flight Lieutenant who was anchoring him to life would be happy to play along with his unspoken request for informality. He’d hate to be stuck with a job’s worth, stuffed shirt sort of chap for his dying moments.
“I’m half Danish,” Jensen eventually replied, and Jared relaxed. “Jensen was my mother’s maiden name, so they decided their first child would use it, keep the family connection with Denmark that way. Luckily, I turned out to be a boy, as Jensen would have made a rather strange name for a girl. My brother and sister have more conventional British names. What is your situation, Squadron Leader? Over.”
Jared sighed. It seemed that this Jensen chap wasn’t to be distracted from his duty so easily.
“Nose gunner dead, rest of the crew bailed out over Belgium, undercarriage gone. So Ackles is a British name then?”
“My father is Scottish. Are you bailing out, over?”
“My parachute got shredded, so did my leg, so no.”
“That’s rough luck….” Jared wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t appreciate the typically British understatement, and he smiled as Ackles continued. “What is your position? Can you make an emergency landing? Over.”
“My baby’s leaking fuel and the central landing gear is shot away, so there is no chance I could land her safely. I’m a fucking good flier, but nobody is that good. I’m bearing north northeast, taking her out to sea.”
As if saying it out loud had given Death permission to take a step closer, a shiver ran through his whole body. Jared swallowed hard. Come on Padalecki, you’re not dead yet. Get a grip.
“So, I was going to sing my way into heaven, but maybe you can keep me entertained with something a bit less…what is the word?”
Jensen’s response was rapid. “Excruciating?”
Jared laughed, slapping a hand to his heart in an exaggerated gesture totally lost on his remote audience of one.
“You cut me to the quick! I was going to say a bit less boring. Tell me, Jensen Ackles, how is it that you are manning the radios tonight? Usually I have a beautiful woman on the other end of the airwaves, guiding me home.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, no lovely ladies here tonight. As to why I’m here? Well, it’s a long story.”
“That’s fine, I’ve probably got a few hours to kill. What better way to spend the time than telling a good tale?” Jared hesitated as a thought struck him. “Unless your shift is over soon? Because I’d be grateful for some company.”
Jared was relieved when Jensen’s response came as swiftly as his friendly insult had before. “I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight. I’d be more than happy to swap a few stories with you.
How did I end up here tonight? Perhaps I need to start at the beginning to tell this right. I was serving with the 1st Battalion of the French Foreign Legion in Syria when the news broke that the war had begun. So I was in a bit of a fix, needed to get out.”
“Wait, you were in the Foreign Legion? How did that happen?” Jared interrupted.
“That’s a different long story, Polak. Which one do you want to hear? Because … it’s only two hours until dawn when my shift ends, and those pretty WAAF girls you wanted to talk to turn up. You’d better choose quick.”
Jared hadn’t missed the slight hesitation, and he appreciated that Ackles had managed to catch himself before saying out loud what they both knew was the real reason they didn’t have time for the long version. That it was Jared who didn’t have much time left.
Jared chuckled softly and chose. “Tell your story your way, Ackles. I’ll be quiet and listen.”
0x0x0x0
Jensen’s story.
“So there I was, stuck in Damascus when the news came through that the Germans had invaded Poland, and we had declared war. It’s strange how easy the decision was to desert from the Legion. I didn’t think twice about it. All I wanted to do was to get home as fast as possible, and to join the fight.
I packed up my kitbag and set out on foot from Damascus. It was a three-day march along those dusty back roads to get to Acre, where I hoped to join up with the British Forces in Palestine. If I’d been able to hitch a ride I’d have got there sooner, but I daren’t risk it. All the while I was looking over my shoulder to see if the Legion would send anyone after me for deserting. I met some strange and interesting characters along the way - at times I felt like I’d stepped into a ciné film about Laurence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Maybe one day I’ll write a book about that journey, but that is a tale for another day.
Once I arrived in Acre, I couldn’t believe how smoothly everything went. The authorities were shipping soldiers back to Blighty, so when I mentioned I’d been an air cadet at school they signed me up for the RAF then and there. Back in England, before I could blink I found myself assigned to Squadron 222, being trained to fly those beautiful new Spitfires. Some of the younger chaps said that at twenty-six I was too old to learn to fly, tried to tell me my reflexes would be too slow, but I showed them how wrong they were. Top of every class, commendations, the works – they soon shut up. Besides, the war wasn’t going to discriminate about a few years here or there. Gerry wouldn’t care if their bullets took out an eighteen-year-old or a thirty-year-old; a dead Brit was a dead Brit.
I don’t have to tell you that the training was tough,” Jensen paused as Jared laughed his agreement.
“Tell me about it!” He said. “The Brits insisted I go through their training regime before they’d allow me to fly one of their Lancasters, even though I had more flying and combat hours than half their instructors.
Sorry, Flight Lieutenant, I’m interrupting. Carry on.”
Jensen resumed his tale, and Jared was happy to hear the smile stay in the other man’s voice as he spoke. Call it intuition, or maybe it was just an innate ability to read people, but Jared had a feeling that perhaps this Jensen Ackles was in need of something to make him smile more.
“I didn’t have any flying experience, but I was fitter than most after my years with the Legion, so the physical tests were a doddle. I was more bothered by the medical and dental examinations; having a tooth extracted was a trauma I never want to face again. Those dentists are sadists. I’m sure they just use intolerance of metal fillings at altitude as an excuse to inflict pain…but I digress.
The thought of being able to take to the skies was dangling in front of me like a dream I’d never realised I’d wanted until that moment. It was that dream that spurred me on. My first flight was in a Tiger Moth. She was an old lady, but I didn’t care because I was airborne at last and I can’t tell you how that made my heart sing. The day I got my wings was one of the proudest days of my life.
I just wish that my family had felt the same way.
Early in 1940, Squadron 222 moved to a new station at Kirton. I started out as a Flying Officer, and it was a Kirton that we were finally introduced to the new planes, our Supermarine Spitfires. Imagine being given the fastest and sleekest machine in the world, and being told to fly her to the limit. It’s hard to describe the excitement that was running through my veins the first time I sat inside that cockpit, curled my fingers around her controls.
But I don’t have to tell you how I felt, Padalecki. You’re a flier. You know how your heart lifts with the passage of the air over the wings; how even though you are heading out to rain down destruction, that moment when you see the curve of the earth as you breach that first bank of clouds is like your own slice of heaven. Your plane is like an extension of your body and soul, she responds to your touch like a lover. Flying is...was...better than sex, better than anything.”
And Jared did know exactly that feeling. Even now, in spite of the peril, it sang through his blood to be airborne. For a moment he lost track of what Ackles was saying, lost in his thoughts. When he mentally tuned in again, Jensen had moved on.
“I could pretend that I lost count of the missions I flew after I got my wings, but I would be lying. I remember every single sortie, every target I took out on the ground and in the air, the face of every German pilot I got close enough to see. I remember it all.
It’s strange then that I don’t recall much about being shot down. It was September ‘43, we were escorting a daylight bombing run when the Luftwaffe came straight out of the sun, strafed us with machine guns. My best mate, Tommy, bought it; I saw his engine catch and his Spitfire went down like a stone wrapped in a ball of flames. I was lucky; my girl was pretty torn up but at least we didn’t burn. I took a bullet in my shoulder, and another passed right through my body, apparently missing most vital parts, and somehow I managed to keep her in the air. I flew her in low and took her home, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there. Ironic really, they gave me a DFC for that. To be awarded a medal for merely surviving.
My injuries weren’t that bad, but I was out of action for a while, and my CO wouldn’t let me return to duty until I was fully fit again, so I thought I’d pass the time doing some volunteering. They were desperately short of qualified pilots to train the new recruits, so when I turned up at EFTS in Yorkshire they were all over me like a rash. Those Miles Masters might look a bit like Spitfires but they don’t handle much like them, and some of those recruits were total idiots, still wet behind the ears enough to think they were immortal. However, I didn’t care; flying was flying, wasn’t it? If putting up with a bunch of idiot puppies was what it took to keep me in the air, then it was a small price to pay.
That’s what I thought, but I was wrong. Stupid. Though, that is easy to see with hindsight.
On December 10th when I walked out of the mess rooms, it was one of those crisp bright winter days where everything seems crystal clear, edged with light. There had been a thick frost overnight, but the runways were pristine and the sky was cloudless, looking like it stretched forever. It was to be my last week as a trainer and I was feeling good. I’d had my recall to the Squadron the night before, and I can’t tell you what a relief that was. So much so my spirits could not be dampened, even when I saw that my last lesson was going to be with probably the most egotistical and overconfident of the present bunch, Toby Clifton-Barnes.”
Jared couldn’t help giving a knowing snort of derision. Jensen laughed.
“I can hear you thinking the same as me; that name just drips privilege, and you’d be right. Clifton-Barnes was eighteen, straight off the playing fields of Eton, and thought he knew everything.
I should have been paying more attention in the officers mess the previous night, because it seemed that Clifton-Barnes had made a bet with his cronies over a few drinks that he could show off a few creative aerobatic moves on his next flight. Which happened to be with me. Maybe if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my good news, I would have heard the ridiculous boasting, and nipped it in the bud. But like I said. Hindsight.
The trouble started when we had only been airborne for less than five minutes. Clifton-Barnes attempted to pull the Masters up into the steepest of climbs. I think the stupid fool intended to try an inverted loop; at least that is what they told me afterwards. When I tried to wrest the plane back out of the climb, I found that my dual controls had been tampered with, no doubt by one of Clifton-Barnes’ gang who knew a bit about engineering. Or perhaps he had slipped one of the ground crew a few bob to meddle with the wiring, who knows.
All I knew was that this arrogant little sod was likely to tear the plane apart from the stresses of the manoeuvres he was trying, and that there was nothing I could do about it. That feeling of helplessness as we came out of the climb and he turned us into a spiralling dive was one of the worst moments of my life. I was screaming at him through the radio, and ground control was yelling, too, when they realised what was going on, but the boy ignored us all, laughing as if this was some sort of game.
He laughed right up to the moment when he ploughed the Masters into a tree that he hadn’t seen and was much to late to avoid hitting.
Obviously, I survived, because here I am, talking to you.
There was no medal for me this time. There was no distinction to be had in failing to take a rash kid in hand and impose some discipline on him. No reward for allowing a callow novice to crash and kill himself, even though he took my legs with him. Sometimes I wish it had been the other way around. That I’d died that day, and Clifton-Barnes, aerobatic-fool, was the one who was sitting somewhere mourning the loss of his lower limbs.
But that would be overemotional, wouldn’t it. Self-indulgent.
Anyway, I am stuck hauling myself, my false legs and my useless stumps up the stairs to this control tower every night, doing the night shift the WAAFs hate so they can go out with their beaus without worrying about losing their beauty sleep.”
Jared wasn’t shocked to hear the extent of the other man’s injuries. As Jensen had been talking, he’d been half anticipating that it would be something like this that had an experienced Flight Lieutenant cooped up in a control tower manning the radios instead of being out, flying missions. No, it was the bitter despair in Jensen’s voice that clenched his heart and left him momentarily without words.
Part 2
